


A Thought to Live By

by qalets (Qalets)



Category: Castle
Genre: M/M, Ryan POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:59:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qalets/pseuds/qalets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Det. Kevin Ryan wakes up on a cold stone floor, a captive in a case he can't remember, it's the voice of a friend that gets him through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captive

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is folks, after a 10 year hiatus (yes, 10 years) I’m back on the fanfiction with two of my favorite characters.
> 
> Written from Ryan’s POV Ryan/Esposito

 

**A Thought to Live By**

**Chapter One: Captive**

 

 

I remember those first few minutes after waking as some of the most frightening of my life. They say that the memory of fear is only a shadow of the true experience, but even now it is still enough to make me awake in the night, slimy with sweat, shivering with cold, until a strong arm sweeps across my chest and pulls me close, the warm rush of a sigh across the back of my neck chasing away the demons as if they are as incorporeal as a shadow.

 

But the reality of those minutes; the cold, hard knowledge of them as firm as the stone beneath my cheek.

 

I awake at once, not the slow clawing up from sleep as one would against the soft cotton of a pillow, but a bursting from the cage of unconsciousness; spluttering and panting like a freed captive in their first rush of liberated air. I do not know where I am. The room is bare, cold. My waking has rocketed me into a sitting position, scrabbling away from the centre of the room to the shadowed sanctuary of the wall, my body somehow fulfilling some primal instinct to protect itself from open ground. My hands are bound. I realise this only when the rustle of the chain prevents my progress. I pull at it in vain. Terror clouds my mind. Breath short. Fear gripping. I manage to find a position that allows my face to press itself back against the stonework – this time of the near wall. Hands twisted before me. Eyes flashing around the room.

 

It’s a long time before I can control my breathing, eyes searching, at first wildly until slowly they begin to the process the details they are seeing. The room is small. No wider than my prostrate figure when I had been laid out on the floor and not much longer. Bare stone floors, bare stone walls, bars at the high window that lets in the weak sunlight. A cell.

 

I can’t, as yet, process the events that have led me here, strange snatches of moments keep returning to me: lowered voices, a shout, a red coat, the crack of a gun. This last thought makes me take mental stock of my person. Other than the angle of my wrists against the chains that bind me, I feel no pain. I am not injured.

 

A knocking.

 

I realise that the sound I’m hearing is no longer just the hammering of my own heart, or the terror of laboured breathing.

 

My detective’s mind is beginning to return to me through the shadows of my fear. I begin to weigh up the evidence. A captive: cold, bound, uninjured. A captive implies a captor. There’s a reason I’m being held. A case. Most probably a case. Whoever they are they don’t want me dead.

 

A knocking again.

 

I consider my options: either I call out or I don’t. Either the source of the sound hears me, or it doesn’t. If the source is human, either they are friendly, or they’re not. In essence I either invite my rescue or alert my captor to my consciousness. I remain quiet.

 

Instead I turn myself so that I can stretch out my legs in front of me, test them and stand tentatively, aware of the sound the chain makes in the silence.

 

The knocking stops.

 

I pause for a moment, unsure of the direction my investigation should take before I notice that the chain that winds around my wrist is tethered to a ring in the corner of the room. I move toward it, limbs stiff. An inspection reveals that it is sturdy, fixed firm to the ground. I rattle it once, twice, a third time in anger and then am still.

 

“Hello?” A voice, not my own, quietly cuts through the gloom.

 

I startle and reel backwards from the corner, searching wildly for the source. The suddenness of my movements causes the chain to rattle against itself once again.

 

“Hello?” The voice repeats. I stop, statue still, listening.

 

“Is there anyone there?” It asks finally and the force of recognition hits me full in the chest as I drop to my knees,

 

“Javi,” I call to the air, voice hoarse, unused, I ask instead. “Javi?”

 

“Kev,” His voice is jubilant, an edge of desperation, “My God, Kev,” He stops abruptly as if the air has been taken suddenly from his lungs. “I thought you were dead.”

 

The shock of his words sends me reeling, the gloom blinking back at me in surprise. I stumble over the questions in my mind, trying to find something that my voice will utter:

 

“What’s happened Javi? Where are we?”

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

“Javi, I don’t remember.” His name is like a salve, applying it often seems to sooth the ache in my chest.

 

“What do you remember?” Tired of talking directionless to a disembodied voice I follow the sound of his words and find a small opening, set very low in the wall. Drainage, my mind supplies, but shuts down when I try to imagine what of.  The gap is no bigger than my hand, but I kneel and lean down close, finding that if I contort my head to the side I can see a chink of light through the grating.

 

“Javi,” I say again and he must notice the difference in volume, something blocks the light on the other side,

 

“I’m here,” His words, closer now. The weight of my relief startles me with its force, that blocking of light, my only evidence that he is here, that he is close, unseen but present.

 

I sit. Back against the wall that separates us.

 

“What do I remember?” I clarify, then more slowly: “I remember a red coat,”

 

He laughs, a strange, alien sound in the barren gray room. “He remembers the coat,” He says, almost to himself.

 

“Is the coat important?”

 

“You thought the coat was important,”

 

“I did?” His words aren’t helping me piece together my memories “Was I right?”

 

“Looks like you were bro,”

 

A beat, I don’t think he’s aware of how cryptic he’s being.

 

“It’s so good to hear your voice,” His words again, I stay silent: “I can’t get over how good it is to hear your voice..”

 

I don’t know what to say, the words seem simultaneously to have come from nowhere and to be voicing the very thing that is always being said. I shift slightly, moving my bound hands to rest against the front of the opening. Closing distance.

 

“Are you… are you chained?” He asks suddenly.

 

“Yeah,” A pause “You’re not?”

 

“No.” A word, and then a curse in Spanish, “No! What kinda reason would they have to chain you?!” I can hear him raging, the strength of his anger shocking.

 

“They? Who’s they Javi?”

 

“No one,” He stops and for a moment I think he is deliberately evading me, “They are no one, hear me!” He is shouting, not at me: “No one and nothing, YOU ARE NOTHING”

 

“Javi,” I call, strangely calm in the wake of his passion “Javi, stop it.”

 

“Why? Why should I?” His voice holds so much anger that it rents me in two that I can’t see him, can’t touch him, calm him.

 

“Because they might hear you.”

 

“I want them to hear me,” His voice is still a shout.

 

“I know you do, but there’s no point.”

 

“No point?”

 

“Why provoke them?”

 

A pause “They are nothing,” And suddenly the anger is replaced with something else, something sad: “There’s no one there Kev”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’ve been shouting all morning, there’s no one there.”

 

“I’m here.”

 

“You weren’t before.”

 

I can’t argue. For a moment I’m quiet, before a thought strikes me:

 

“How long have we been here Javi?”

 

“I don’t know,” There’s a scraping sound with his words; I picture him sitting, as I am doing, cold stone separating our backs. “A day perhaps.”

 

“A day?!” The shock winds me.

 

“Give or take.”

 

Silence.

 

“That’s how you knew it was morning,” I say after what feels like a long time.

 

“Huh?” Just a noise. Through a wall.

 

“You said you’d been shouting all morning,”

 

“I guess I did,”

 

“How come I didn’t hear you?”

 

“You must’ve been out cold bro,”

 

“Or they drugged me,”

 

“Or they drugged you,” He repeats.

 

“They drugged the others,” I say finally.

 

“You remember,”

 

“A woman, in a red coat,”

 

“She was the first,”

 

“We never found her,”

 

“But we found the coat Kev,” A sigh “And I didn’t believe you.”

 

 

***

 

_My back pressed against the plasterboard wall beside an apartment door, catching Esposito’s eye across the opening, vests on, firearms raised. A nod. We move._

_A shout, a hallway, a kitchen, a slumped sitting room:_

_“Clear!”_

_The view out of the window: six feet from the brickwork of the building next door. Running my hand across the objects on the sideboard beneath: a chipped cat statue, a vase without the flower, a watch probably long stopped, a dish with three quarters and a button. A red button._

 

_I cross to the closet; doors already wrenched open in the search for the suspect. It hangs against the side, pushed back, blazing against the grays and blacks of the other garments. I draw back as if burned._

_Esposito is passing by “Do you have the picture?” I ask_

_“What picture?” He’s preoccupied._

_“The one of the girl.”_

_“Oh, yeah, sure, here.” He pats down his pockets and hands it to me without looking at it, we all know it by heart now: Caucasian female, 27, dark hair, green eyes, 5’3, 130lb. In the picture she’s looking toward the camera, smiling in an absent minded way, hair pulled over one shoulder and brushed back on her temples by her sunglasses, perched on the top of her head. She sits outside a local café; you can see the table in front of her, her forearms rested atop it, exposed in the afternoon sunlight. She wears a white blouse and a red coat, visible only at her lapel._

_“It’s the coat.” I say, but Esposito isn’t looking at me, he’s talking to another of the officers, “Javi,” I call “The coat.”_

_With my words he stops his conversation abruptly and looks toward me; eyes dark, a scowl surfacing. I realize too late that I have used the wrong name. He glances nervously at the rest of the room and feeling ridiculous I do the same, it is full of officers, but no one has heard. Or if they have, no one cares. Partners use first names all the time. It doesn’t mean anything._

_It means something to Esposito._

_“What are you talking about?”_

_I pull out the garment, brandishing it toward him like a standard. “The coat,” I thrust the picture back in his direction “It’s the coat.”_

_He’s silent for a moment, studying the two: “Come on Ryan, that could be any coat,” He says finally, “You can barely see it in the picture,”_

_“But what’s a girl’s coat doing in here?” I ask,_

_“The suspect has a girlfriend,” He says a matter-of-factly, reaching in to pull out another of the garments I’d not noticed, very obviously a woman’s trench coat: “It could be hers,”_

_“But,” I look down at the material in my hands, feeling ridiculous, feeling somehow sure without knowing why._

_“Look, Beckett just called, the guy is at the station, he’s turned himself in. He has an alibi.”_

_A beat, I realize he thinks the conversation is over; suddenly I understand why it is that I’m sure._

_“The buttons, the buttons are the same,” I jab at the picture in his hands in my excitement. He snorts._

_“Don’t be such a girl Ryan,” And he laughs, not unkindly, but not to me, to the rest of the room, to the officers that have heard our conversation and are listening. To the others._

 

_I watch him walk away._

***

 

“I guess the alibi was pretty air-tight,” I say, snapping back into the room, somehow wanting to defend him even to my own flashback.

 

“I’ve been thinking about it and I think we must’ve got something wrong,” Javi replies.

 

“What gave it away?” I reply, deadpan, referring to the cells, the bars, the chains.

 

“No listen, I mean Lanie said time of death was anywhere between 0800 and 1100 right…” He’s becoming heated; he’s had too much time to think this through.

 

“Whoa man, who’s time of death? We never found her.”

 

“Goldberg, the second guy.”

 

There’s a pause and with his name my mind finds a picture: a professional headshot. Dark hair, blue shirt, arms folded across his chest with one shoulder facing the camera. Flashy watch. Winning smile.

 

“Do we have to go through this now?” I ask suddenly, “My head’s killing me”

 

There’s silence, then a sudden noise that I’m not able to identify through the thick stone wall.

 

“Kev,” His voice is louder, closer “Kev, are you ok?” A beat, “Are you hurt?”

 

I sigh and rest my head against the cool stone between us.

 

“No Javi, no, I’m not hurt,” A pause, in which I wish I could see his face, wish I could read his silence. “I guess I must’ve just hit my head.”

 

“It would explain why you can’t remember things,” Esposito resurfaces.

 

“I guess it would.”

 

“You shouldn’t sleep.” He says suddenly, as if panicked.

 

“I’m not sleeping,” I mumble, aware I’ve closed my eyes,

 

“It’s dangerous with head trauma,”

 

“I know.”

 

“You might not wake up.”

 

A loaded pause “Thanks for sugar-coating it,”

 

“Then who would I talk to?” He asks; I think he means for it to be light-hearted, but there’s something in his tone that never quite makes it.

 

He falls quiet again and I’m suddenly of aware of the silence as I never have been before. Nothing: no traffic or birdsong, no distant sounds of shouts or voices, no footsteps.

 

“Javi, if you don’t want me to sleep you’re going to have to talk to me.” I mumble again.

 

“Not really my forte.”

 

“I know.”

 

A pause: “I was thinking about your couch,” He says abruptly.

 

“What?”

 

“Your couch,”

 

“I thought I heard that, but I didn’t believe it. Why were you thinking about my couch?”

 

“I was thinking about how awful it is,” He counters quickly.

 

“Walked into that one,” I smile, and at the same time am amazed by my ability to smile.

 

“I was thinking about how comfy that couch would be right now,”

 

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about it,”

 

“That it’s comfier than a cold, wet, stone floor?”

 

“Yeah,” Another pause “I’m not going to ask why yours is wet.”

 

“I’m trying not to think about that too hard either bro,”

 

And at this I laugh; marveling.

 

“What do you think we’d be doing right now if this was a normal day?” I ask finally,

 

“You mean if we weren’t locked in individual rooms, talking through a wall?”

 

“Again with the sugar-coating.”

 

“Just telling it like it is.” A sigh “I dunno man,”

 

“Try,” I urge.

 

“Well we’d be at the station…”

 

“Right,” I encourage,

 

“…probably working on this case.” He continues,

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Interrogating the guys that did this to us,” He’s running with it,

 

“Well obviously,” I smile again,

 

“…so we’d probably be locked in individual rooms…”

 

“…talking through wall,” I finish his thought,

 

“Or two-way mirror,” He corrects,

 

“Same difference I guess,”

 

“Just telling it like it is bro,”

 

“Somehow I think I’d prefer to be sitting in the interrogation rooms right now,”

 

“Not something you thought you’d ever say,”

 

“I didn’t think you’d ever express a desire to be sitting on my couch,”

 

“I dunno.” A pause, “You’d be there right?”

 

I stop. That silence again. The sense that through all our banter we’re constantly peering over the edge of something,

 

“Yeah, bro, I’d be there,”

 

“We must be driving Castle and Beckett out of their minds,” He says after a moment, out of the blue but as if carrying on a thought that has been expressed before.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Looking for us,”

 

And strangely it’s the first time that I’ve thought of them, or of the people outside this cold cocoon. I get a sense then of everything going on as normal, close by but so far apart from us that I get a rush of something like vertigo.

 

“Would they have any leads?” I ask, trying out my memories again.

 

“I imagine when they didn’t hear from us they’d start at that apartment on 5th,”

 

“The one I was at,”

 

“Yeah bro,”

 

***

 

_The station: littered desks, pushed back chairs, the evidence board full of spidery words and hastily pinned-up pictures, spiraling arrows, connecting evidential dots._

_“So until Laney can tell us any more any one of these three could be our guy,” Beckett says, marker in hand, jabbing toward a group of photos._

_“Or none of them” Castle offers, helpfully._

_She pauses; I have that feeling I so often have when they are together of being witness to a private conversation. “They all have access; they all visited the building in the time leading up to when our victims were found,”_

_“But none of them have motive,” Castle continues,_

_“So far Castle, there doesn’t seem to be any motive,” She counters, almost desperately._

_“There’s always motive,” He finishes, thoughtfully, “Perhaps…” He starts,_

_“Not now Castle,” She cuts him off._

_I meet Esposito’s eye behind her back, the flash of a grin._

_She turns suddenly and I resist the temptation to shuffle my feet like a schoolboy caught passing notes._

_“I think all we can do at this stage is just run over everything again, there must be something we’ve missed. Esposito, Ryan, head back over there, ask some questions, knock on doors, generally make everyone feel uncomfortable.”_

_“Shouldn’t we send Castle for that?” Esposito asks, catching Castle’s eye over her shoulder and earning himself a tip of the head and wry grin._

_“Not that uncomfortable Esposito,” She stops for a moment and peers forward at a picture tacked to the top of the board, “Talking of uncomfortable, Ryan, check out our third vic’s apartment again would you? There’s just always been something about that bedroom that’s creeped me out,”_

_And we are understood to be dismissed._

_Grabbing our bags from our desk we’re most of the way down the hall and out of ear-shot of the others before I lean over to Esposito:_

_“So why is it we’re being sent back?” I ask,_

_“Checking for creepy I think bro,”_

_“And how do we…” But I’m cut off with the sound of his cell. He rolls his eyes and fishes it from his pocket._

_“Lanie?” He asks as a greeting, I don’t need to ask who it is. He listens for a moment, “No, sure, yeah, I’ll be right there.” He snaps his phone shut: “Lanie needs me downstairs, you be ok checking for creepy without me bro? Sounds like pretty standard procedure,”_

_“Sure,” I mumble, but he’s already most of the way down the hall away from me, “Pretty standard procedure.”_

_***_

 

“It’s my fault.” His words, through the wall.

 

“What is?” I ask,

 

“I sent you alone.”

 

“Doesn’t take two to look for creepy,”

 

“Don’t be cute,”

 

“You think I’m cute?”

 

“Stop changing the subject,”

 

“Stop blaming yourself,”

 

Stalemate.

 

Silence: shuffling, shifting silence. I’m reminded of that schoolboy, caught out.

 

Then a noise through the silence: a scraping.

 

“What are you doing?” I ask the wall.

 

His voice, far away, I can’t distinguish the words.

 

“Javi?” I ask,

 

“I’m here,” That phrase, coming from close again.

 

 “What were you doing?” I ask again,

 

“Oh you know; balanced my check book, shot some pool, made myself a pitcher of margaritas,”

 

“Sounds like a party,”

 

“I think we need to go to some parties,” There’s a sound against the wall again, like he’s sitting.

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“You think balancing your check book is a party?”

 

“I assumed you finished with that that before the party started,”

 

“Oh yeah, I guess you’re right,”

 

“Many guests?” I’m aware we were talking nonsense, I like talking nonsense.

 

“Nah, just the one,”

 

A beat.

 

“I think I’d prefer Madden to pool,”

 

“Ok then,”

 

“And beer to margaritas,”

 

“You sure? I make a mean margarita,”

 

“How did I not know that about you?” I ask, smiling.

 

“There’s lots you don’t know about me,”

 

“That’s a huge cliché,”

 

“I’m also a huge cliché – how did you not know that about me?”

 

“I had my suspicions,” That smile again,

 

Another pause.

 

“I’m sorry Kev,” His tone that I thought I’d been able to steer away from self-loathing darkens again. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,”

 

“Come on man, don’t be stupid,” Then a sneaking suspicion that we’re not still talking about the previous topic: “What you apologizing for?”

 

“For everything, for being such a goddam cliché,”

 

“What are you talking about?” I get the sense we’re peering over that edge again,

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be,”

 

“You are always the person I wanted you to be,”

 

“That’s a lie Kev, it’s a nice lie, but it’s still a lie.” A pause, “I guess I’m just not as brave as you are,”

 

“Now that’s a lie,”

 

“I couldn’t even go with you to that apartment building.”

 

Suddenly he steers us away from the drop. This time that doesn’t make me sad, or nervous, it makes me angry.

 

“That wasn’t because you’re not brave.”

 

“No, that was because I’m stupid.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I’m losing my patience.

 

“I shoulda trusted Beckett,”

 

“Trusted Beckett on what? On a hunch?”

 

“The hunch was right,”

 

“The hunch was nothing,” I stand, finding my head no longer hurts, finding that anger clears the mind. I want to see him, to touch him, to shake him.

 

“I disregarded an order,”

 

“It was a suggestion.”

 

“From my superior,”

 

“I could handle it on my own,”

 

“You call this handling it on your own?”

 

“You didn’t know this was going to happen, I was knocking on doors, interviewing little old ladies,”

 

“I let you down,”

 

“I can look after myself Javi,”

 

“You shouldn’t have had to; I should be there for you,”

 

“You are there for me!” I can’t help feeling that we were spiraling; accelerating closer to the center.

 

“I should have stopped you,”

 

“Stopped me? I was doing my job!”

 

“I should have said…” He cuts in,

 

“Said what? That Beckett had a hunch?” I cut back, practically a shout.

 

“That you shouldn’t go alone,”

 

“I could handle it…!” I repeat, circling,

 

“I should have told you,” He cuts me off,

 

“Told me what Javi?!”

 

“I should have told you that I love you too!”

 

 

Silence.

 

I think I know how a boxer feels after a round. I find my breath coming fast, mind whirling at the force of a conversation I didn’t know I was spinning towards. I’m left feeling like the ledge has just crumbled beneath my feet, hurling me into the precipice we’d been peering into.

 

He says nothing, I respond in kind.

 

 

 

_***_

 

_A bed, an arm. Tangled clothing lying in pools across sunlight-dappled carpet._

_I wake; a slow clawing up from sleep against the soft cotton of a pillow. It’s not my own._

 

_I turn beneath the arm slung low across my chest, moving slowly so as not to wake him. His face is calm, smoothed with sleep, unaware of my gaze._

 

_I slip from the bedclothes then, reluctantly. This is not the first time. The last was full of shifting glances, eyes not quite met, clothes sought, platitudes hesitant. Handing him his coffee the next day at work, trying not to release my heart from my throat._

 

_I gather my clothes from the floor, separating them from their partners: a shirt and a shirt, pants by pants, missing socks. I retreat to the sitting room to dress, not wanting to wake him and then fill a glass at the faucet, washing at the taste of stale beer in my mouth with tepid water._

 

_"Kev," His voice startles me._

 

_I turn and find him standing in the doorway, wearing only his boxers: smooth honey skin and sleep-flushed cheeks, a blush of hair across his chest. I want to move toward him in the same breath that I want to move away._

 

_"Javi, I..." I start, but don't know how to finish._

 

_"This seems to keep happening," His voice is soft, walled._

 

_"Yes," And the space between us looms like a barrier, cold, hard. I can see him but not touch him._

 

_I run out of words, looking at him._

 

_Putting down the glass I turn to the door, checking pockets, retrieving my wallet from where I left it on the counter. I can feel his eyes on me._

 

_"I'll see you at work," I call into the room but his voice stops me, still lost, still far away, still bricked off:_

 

_"I don't know what to do with this Kev,"_

 

_I pause._

_"Me either," I don't turn but address the door handle._

_“You’re my partner and I…” His words crumble. “And I…” He starts again but I stop him, turning from the door to meet his eyes in what I hope is defiance._

_"I love you, Javi,"_

_He blinks. Lost. Mouth open, eyes on mine_

_“I, I…” He gets out._

_But I’m gone._

 

_***_

 

“I think it’s raining.” He says after a long time.

 

The silence has seemed limitless, separating.

 

“I can smell it,” I reply,

 

That edge has gained mass and gravity, shining bright white like a sun. It is something that can only be viewed from the corners of vision. Stare into it and you’re blind.

 

“I used to love the smell of the rain,” He supplies,

 

“Used to?”

 

“Yeah, reminded me of camping with my family. Nights under the stars,”

 

“Sounds like a cliché,”

 

A pause, like Icarus I feel I have steered to close.

 

“Yeah, I guess,” His only response,

 

“What does it remind you of now?”

 

“Crime scenes.”

 

“You’ve been doing this too long,”

 

“Maybe,”

 

Silence again.

 

I stand and move toward the window, aware as I draw closer of the sound of the raindrops on the stone wall, batting lightly on the window ledge. The opening is high, glassless. No matter where I stand in the room it exposes only a gray square of sky.

 

Hopelessly I cross to the far wall, set with a heavy door. No light penetrates this side of the room and until this point I’ve ignored it. There is no handle, nothing but dark expanse of thick wood. I run my bound hands over the crack between wall and door, aware of the scraping as the chain drags on stone. Nothing.

 

I move back to the wall, the grating, his voice.

 

“I’ve never liked the rain,” I say,

 

“I’m getting to dislike it,” he replies.

 

“You mean when you have to get up at 3am and stand in it for hours while Beckett and Castle bicker over a case?”

 

Saying their names makes them real, makes my chest hurt with how far away they seem.

 

“Yeah, there’s that,”

 

“What else?”

 

“It’s making me thirsty,”

 

He’s the first to identify the elephant in the room. Like he was the first to peer over that precipice, to skirt that sun. I smile to myself: this cell is getting crowded with analogies.

 

“Window’s too high,” I state a matter-of-factly, not wanting to address his point directly.

 

“Yeah, I tried,”

 

“You have a window?”

 

“I have a window.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“A door.”

 

“Me too,”

 

“Makes sense.”

 

“You have a wet floor,”

 

“You’re right, I do,”

 

“Water must be getting in somewhere.”

 

There’s a silence, followed by heavy, distant moving noises.

 

He’s a long time coming back.

 

“I can’t see anything,”

 

A pause.

  
“I can’t hear anything,” I reply

 

“No, me either. It’s quiet,”

 

“Really quiet.”

 

“Too quiet?” He asks

 

“Makes you sound like one of Castle’s novels.”

 

“Detective Ochoa you mean?”

 

“You’ve read them?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Why?” He doesn’t answer, so I ask instead, “You like them?”

 

“You like them.”

 

Another pause.

 

“I wish you’d stop doing that,” I say finally.

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Saying things like that,”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It’s the captivity talking,” I state, braving a glance at that star.

 

“Captivity doesn’t talk,”

 

“It makes people say things they don’t mean,”

 

“Perhaps it makes people say things they should have said before.”

 

“I don’t know what to do with this Javi,” I get a flash of a sunlight filled room, him standing across a precipice of carpet, smooth skin, lost eyes.

 

“Me either.”

 

“I’m not as brave as you think I am.”

 

***

_I’ve knocked on a dozen different doors, spoken to a dozen different faces, got a dozen different stories with a dozen different opinions. I’m only just starting._

_The last apartment on the floor is number 14B – last known tenant Victoria Staines: our third victim._

_I break the gaudy police tape that’s been slung diagonally across the door like streamers, letting myself in with the key I’ve got from the building supervisor._

_The door swings open without creaking. Inside it’s cold. A room filled with dormant memories. Without turning on the light I take it in for moment, feeling the breath of walking feet, the scent of a distant television program, the silent murmur of absent voices._

_Then I flick on the light. I’ve read too many of Castle’s novels to believe that being alone in a victim’s apartment in the dark is a good idea._

_They’d found her body only this morning: left in a dumpster behind a building three blocks away. Unceremoniously abandoned._

_It had been raining when I’d got to the scene, Beckett and Castle stooped over at the end of the alley, the unmistakable pose of studying death. Esposito was on the phone some distance away from them, but hung up as I drew near:_

_“Got an ID,” He’d said, followed by her name, the first time I’d heard it. “Got an address too, same building as our vics from last week.” Beckett and Castle look up at us then and I realize that this is the first moment that any of them has made the connection._

_I bring myself back to the room, crossing to the bedroom and pushing open the door. She had lived alone. No one had reported her missing despite the fact that we’d been unable to find anyone who had seen her since a client lunch the previous Thursday. That left almost four days unaccounted for._

_I turn on the light and pull my camera from my bag, crossing the room to flick on the lamps by the bed as well, hoping both literally and metaphorically to be able to cast some further light on the scene. As I do so I accidentally knock a small figurine from the dresser: a cat. I replace it. Shoot a few photos. Look at the cat again._

_Turning to look around the room I realize that cats seem to be a predominant feature: a framed photograph on the wall above the headboard, a number of postcards stuck into the edge of the mirror, assorted figures scattered across the top of the bookshelf._

_“Now I know what Beckett meant by creepy”, I mumble to half to myself, half to my absent partner. I snap a few more photos._

_It’s only when I draw closer to the bookshelf that something occurs to me. The figurines positioned across its top haven’t been scattered in a jumble as I first thought but arranged neatly, each evenly spaced. With one missing. I drag over the chair from the corner (dislodging a stuffed feline that had been perched there) and climb onto it, inspecting the space more closely. The shelf is covered with dust, except, as I suspected, for a perfect circle. I snap a photo._

_The darkness in that top corner of the room causes the automatic flash to come on with the click of the shutter. Something reflects back at me. I take another. Again the flash comes back. I reach out toward the reflecting surface._

_And stop. I hear voices._

_Lowered voices, murmuring from the hallway outside the door. A thump. In a second I’m scrambling from the chair, feeling open, exposed. Aware I’ve found something I don’t know whether to go for my cell or my gun. I drop the camera in my haste; watch it fall beneath the bed. The same moment the apartment door is pushed open. I flatten myself against the bedroom wall but they seem to know where I am. Before I have chance to choose my gun; to pull it from its holster beneath my jacket they’re on me, hands grasp, voices, a shout, a thud. Darkness._

_***_

The rain has stopped, but the sky doesn’t lighten. I realize that it might be dusk.

 

“Javi, do you remember when we first met?”

 

“Sure,”

 

“I don’t mean the ‘Esposito this is Ryan, Ryan this is Esposito’ at the station,”

 

“You don’t?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“But that’s how we met,” He insists.

 

“But that’s not what I mean,”

 

“You were wearing a blue shirt.”

 

“You remember I was wearing a blue shirt?”

 

“Yeah, I remember thinking that this guy has to have the weirdest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Because I was wearing a blue shirt?”

 

“They were the exact same color as the shirt.”

 

“I’ve been told I have nice eyes,”

 

“You get used to them.”

 

I wonder if this statement is more poignant than he intends.

 

“Is this the part where you admit you’d been following me before we were partners?” He continues, a joke in his voice,

 

I laugh in surprise: “I prefer the term stalking,”

 

“I’m not sure I do,”

 

“Had to pay a few bribes to make sure you were my partner of course,” I reply, running with it.

 

“Of course,”

 

“You’re not cheap,”

 

“Actually I think I am, usually about three beers.”

 

I blink. “Are we talking about this?” I ask, that sun glowing brighter.

 

“This?”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I don’t think we are.”

 

“Are what?”

 

“Talking about this,”

 

“This?”

 

“We’re always not talking about this,”

 

“The elephant in the room,” I offer, dipping into that plethora of analogies I seem to have collected.

 

“You have an elephant in your room?”

 

I let out an involuntary laugh; a release of tension.

 

A pause. The sky hasn’t lightened. I was right, it’s getting dark.

 

“So what do you mean?” He asks finally.

 

“About what we’re not talking about?”

 

“About when we met.”

 

“Oh,” I pause, “I meant later,”

 

“You’re saying we met later than I thought we met?”

 

“I guess,” I continue, feeling faintly ridiculous.

 

“So who was that guy in the blue shirt?”

 

“The one with the weird eyes?”

 

“The one with the nice eyes.”

 

Another pause.

 

“You keep distracting me,” I say finally,

 

“That’s the intention,”

 

“I was trying to tell you something. You can’t take this seriously for two minutes?”

 

“No”. His succinct reply,

 

“No?”

 

“No, because if I do I’m gonna get angry.”

 

Tension mounts again, suddenly. The darkening room draws in.

 

“My story wasn’t that bad.”

 

“I wasn’t angry at your story,”

 

“I know,”

 

“I’m locked in a goddam cell Kev,” His voice rises,

 

“Don’t, Javi,”

 

There’s a long pause, then a sigh.

 

“My butt is cold.”

 

“I don’t remember it that way,” This time his laugh. I get the impression we’ve switched sides. One of us has to stay positive.

 

“God, I’m tired.” He sighs,

 

“You should sleep,”

 

“You were telling me a story...”

 

 

_***_

_The clink of glass. Amber liquid and lilted voices. Smiles. The meeting of eyes over drinks raised to lips._

_“So, anyway, I go after him,” My partner of three days is mid-story, commanding the attention and the delight of the small group gathered around him. “And man this guy is fast, I mean road-runner fast. He takes off down this street like his ass is on fire, swerving through all these kids on bikes and skateboards and such,”_

_I turn from him momentarily to receive a glass handed to me by a woman that looks too much like she’s walked off a movie set to be a detective. A detective and my boss. I nod my thanks._

_“Well I think to myself, I’m just not gonna catch this guy.” Esposito continues, “I’ve completely left my partner behind, he has even less chance than me, puffing like a guy about to have a heart attack. So I do the only thing I can do,”_

_“You didn’t,” The fourth member of our group interjects, we’d been introduced in the loud bar only a few minutes before and I think I’d caught her name as Janie._

_“I did,” He nods at her, grinning, “I just wave my badge at this kid, scare him half to death by the way, and take it,”_

_“Take his bike?” Janie asks amazed,_

_“No, no his skateboard.”_

_The group erupts with laugher,_

_“Well did you catch him?” Beckett asks, replacing his empty glass with a full one,_

_“No.”_

_Laughter again, he continues:_

_“For about a minute I think I’m on to a sure thing, I’m gaining on the guy; the kids are all getting out of my way... My partner is like way behind at this point, I’m not even sure he knew what was going on. But then the board just sorta starts to wobble…” We all seem to be leaning in to him now, eager for the next detail: “and then the wheels fall off.”_

_Again the laughter rises. He laughs along with us and continues:_

_“All of them, just all at once, I’m left as this stupid heap on the floor.”_

_“So what happens then?” Janie again,_

_“Well the guy gets away. But not before I get this right earful from the kid who I took the board from, he catches up with me before I can even get up and just sorta starts yelling about how I broke his board and how I owe him a board, like I care about the board!”_

_“And your partner?” I find myself asking,_

_“Useless, by the time he gets there he can barely talk he’s panting so hard. He just keeps repeating “I was with you”, “I was with you” like he was anywhere close!” The laughter continues._

_It’s Beckett that speaks as the merriment subsides:_

_“So I think we should propose a toast,” She smiles, raising her glass: “To new partners” She continues, inclining her head in my direction: “Who *_ will* _be with you,” Four glasses raise._

_“…until the wheels fall off.” I cut in. And they all laugh._

_***_

 

“So you’re saying we met that night?” His voice through the wall again, it’s almost completely dark now, the window lit only by the tungsten glow of the city.

 

“I met you properly that night,” I pause, testing the next words in my mind, “I met Javi that night.”

 

“You make it sound like my secret identity.”

 

“That wasn’t what I meant,”

 

“No, I kinda like that idea,”

 

“Just because it makes you sound like a superhero,”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Esposito would be an awful name for a superhero,”

 

“Esposito would be an awesome name for a superhero,”

 

I smile at the wall in the darkness, still remembering the night I’d been telling him about. Lanie and Beckett hadn’t stayed long but Javi and I had been in that bar for hours; trading stories, sharing jokes, picking apart our pasts and predicting our future. Four beers later when we parted ways with a blurred handshake on the street, the same phrase I’d used as a joke in the toast had already become something to hang on to. A thought to live by. Partners.

 

“Of course if I was a superhero we wouldn’t still be here.”

 

“What are you doing here?” I ask suddenly. Springing back from memories of laughter to a cold, gray room I can’t escape from.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean I went to that apartment alone.”

 

“Yeah, I was with Lanie,”

 

“Yeah and when they came in through that door with…” I falter, “With whatever it was they must’ve hit me with, I was alone,”

 

“Yeah, don’t remind me bro,”

 

“But you’re here.”

 

He’s quiet for a moment.

 

“I came after you,”

 

“You did?”

 

“Yeah, it was stupid of me,”

 

“What?”

 

“I came after you. I came after you alone,”

 

“Why?” I ask, but he doesn’t say anything “Did Lanie find something?”

 

“Not really, in fact the only thing she found was nothing. Neither of our victims had any sign of trauma, no defensive wounds, nothing at all to show that they might have fought for their lives.”

 

“Neither of the victims?”

 

“Yeah, Stuart Goldberg, the banker and Staines, the girl, the lawyer,” He pauses, “Lanie did confirm that both had been drugged, something we already knew,”

 

“And we never found the body of the woman in the red coat?”

 

“Cuthbert, Lucy Cuthbert, no we didn’t. We always assumed we would, kept calling her our first victim, she’d been missing almost a fortnight,”

 

“And all three lived in the same apartment building?”

 

“Yeah,”

 

“Goldberg and Cuthbert, they were in a relationship” I remember suddenly,

 

“They were?”

 

“Yeah, one of the people I interviewed when I went back to the building, they said they’d seen them together, more than once.”

 

“Goldberg was married.”

 

“The witness seemed pretty sure, said they’d been  _seen_  together if you know what I mean,” I pause, “Could that be motive? Wasn’t one of the three on our suspects list a colleague of hers?”

 

“Yeah he’d been over to the apartment around five days before we found Goldberg’s body,”

 

“A day before Cuthbert was reported missing,” I remember, creating a mental evidence board in the darkness.

 

“The downstairs neighbor heard noises; we thought the colleague was the boyfriend.”

 

“But it was Goldberg she was making noises with.”

 

“Having sex with,” He says blankly, “We’re adults, we can say it,”

 

“I didn’t think we could say things,” I counter,

 

“Like I love you.” He says softly and the conversation flips, up-ended by the gravity of that star.

 

“I thought we were talking about the case,”

 

“We’re always talking about a case,”

 

“You were the one who changed the subject earlier,” I argue.

 

“I don’t remember it like that,”

 

“You started talking about the rain,”

 

“Only because you’d gone so quiet I thought I was on my own again,”

 

My mind spins with the weight of a conversation started and lost, talking in circles. Blind-siding our feelings.

 

“You could never say it before; you could barely look me in the eye.”

 

“I was an idiot.”

 

“Is that how you feel?” I ask suddenly,

 

“Stupid? Yeah, that’s how I feel,”

 

“You know that’s not what I mean,”

 

He sighs: “Look Kev I’m not very good at this,”

 

“At what?”

 

“At talking about my feelings,”

 

I stay silent. He continues hesitantly,

 

“All I know is that when I got that call from Beckett, I felt,” A pause, “I felt like the bottom had fallen out of my world.”

 

This time I’m silent because I have no words. It is a few seconds before I can frame a sentence.

 

“For a guy that can’t talk about his feelings, that was pretty eloquent.”

 

“I read,”

 

“Does Ochoa say something like that in chapter 6 of Heat Wave?”

 

“Busted.”

 

“I think he’s trying to get someone into bed at the time,”

 

“How do you know that’s not what I’m doing?”

 

“If it is you’ve chosen a bad moment,”

 

“If we weren’t locked in separate rooms, talking through a wall?”

 

I let the question hang,

 

“We’re talking about this,” I finally observe

 

“Seems so,”

 

“Wait, what call?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You said Beckett called you,”

 

“Yeah, I did,” He gathers his thoughts: “It was when I was with Lanie, you’d been gone a while, apparently she and Castle had gotten a call, someone found wandering around Central Park. A guy. He wasn’t saying much, but the few things he did say made them rush over there. They were already on the road when they called me,”

 

“Are you going to tell me what he’d said?”

 

“Two names; the first was Victoria Staines, the second was the building super.”

 

I let out the breath I realize I’ve been holding. I connect the dots in my memory. It was super’s apartment that we’d been at when I’d found the button, the cat figurine, the coat, the stopped watch. He’d been one of the three on our list. He’d had access to their apartments; they’d all been in the building.

 

“But who was the guy?”

 

“What guy?”

 

“The guy they were rushing to talk to,”

 

“I have no idea bro, the moment I realized what you might be going towards if you went back to that building alone I just got out of there.”

 

“You came after me,”

 

“I shoulda gone with you in the first place,”

 

“But you came without backup?”

 

“I was stupid, I wasn’t thinking. Or not of me. The whole way over there I was calling your cell and when you didn’t pick up I just got more and more terrified that something had happened. By the time I’d made it to the building I was so riled up I was ready to take on the world.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Pretty standard procedure. There were two of them in his apartment when I got there: the super and a woman, I guessed it was his girlfriend. She was holding a gun,” In the darkness his story comes alive, I can see it before me like a movie playing in a theatre: “She tried to stop me as I got in the door, but luckily she was a terrible shot. Seemed pretty spooked by it if I’m honest, well that and the fact that I had a gun pointed back at her, so I managed to get round and take it from her pretty easily. That’s when there was a noise behind me, it was you. I turned around. I let my guard down. You were on the floor, face down.” There’s a long pause, then his words again: “Then something hit me. From behind.”

 

“They drugged me and not you?”

 

“I have no idea, perhaps they’d already drugged you when I got there, then were in a hurry with me.”

 

“They chained me and not you?”

 

“I’m not moving too fast right now,”

 

The dread sits like darkness across my shoulders.

 

“Javi,”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“How good a shot was she?”

 

“My arm, straight through.”

 

“Shit,” That’s all there is to say, “Shit Javi, all this time, all this time you’ve been sitting there bleeding and you’ve not told me?”

 

“What good would it have done bro? Anyway, I think I managed to stop the bleeding.”

 

“With what?”

 

“My shirt.”

 

There’s a pause, I could go either way: continue to beat myself up for not realizing something I couldn’t possibly have known, or take his lead, stay positive.

 

“No wonder you’re cold.” I say lightly, “All this time we’ve been talking and you’ve been half naked,”

 

A laugh: “Yeah bro,”

 

A silence, I begin to see everything he’s done and said since I awoke in a new light.

 

“It’s dark,” He says finally.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I wish I could touch you,” From the mundane to the extraordinary.

 

A pause, darkness binding.

 

“I’m so sorry Javi,”

 

“Please don’t,”

 

“If you’d not come after me you wouldn’t be here,”

 

“If I’d gone with you in the first place neither of us would be,”

 

“I almost got you killed,”

 

“Ditto.”

 

Another pause.

 

“Thank you,” I say, mouth following my pendulum emotions.

 

“For what? For almost getting you killed?”

 

“For being here with me,”

 

His pause, I continue:

 

“It’s probably the most selfish thing I’ve ever thought, but I don’t think I could have done this if you’d not been there,”

 

“Ditto.” His voice is quiet, full of emotion I can’t interpret through a thick stone wall.

 

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be held captive with,” I say, my tone lighter.

 

He picks up on it: “Imagine if it’d been Castle,”

 

“I’d’ve gone insane.”

 

“On the plus side I’d’ve been out there, looking for you both, maybe understanding what was going on here.”

 

My pause.

 

“What were you saying before? About getting something wrong? About the time of death?”

 

“I’m not sure it’s anything,”

 

“What was it?”

 

“It was just that we were all so focused on when they died, not when they went missing,”

 

“The super had an alibi for the time of death…”

 

“But I doubt he does for they went missing.” He continues,

 

I think for a moment: “We couldn’t trace any of their movements for days before they were found.”

 

“We never found Cuthbert,” He continues.

 

“And then a fourth, found but not missing.” I posit. “Perhaps you should have stuck around and found out a little more about him,”

 

“I will next time.”

 

I smile, thoughtful, “Then the biggest point,” I say “This place.”

 

“Yeah, where are we?”

 

“I feel like we’re in a dungeon.” I reply, looking around in the almost absolute darkness and finding I no longer have any understanding of the size of the space I am captive in. “Are we saying we think the others were here before us?”

 

“Four people, found in twos, spaced a week apart.”

 

“Six,” I correct. Then regret it.

 

“Three dead,” He says, ignoring it.

 

“Two,” I correct, “Two dead, one missing, one found.”

 

“And us.” He continues, acknowledging it

 

“And us.” I confirm.

 

_***_

_The first time had been after we’d closed a case. Jubilant, exhausted, emotionally wrung out, the thought of just going home and forgetting about our day seemed impossible._

_I’d suggested Madden, he’d suggested beer. It had already become a sort of ritual with us; the occasional evening slumped on the other’s couch, taking out frustrations on virtual avatars, plastic buttons, television pixels._

_This night however, wasn’t a ritual one. The case had been tough: multiple murders and multiple scenes, chasing down leads that led nowhere, faces, names, interviews, a slow grind of paperwork followed by the rush of the final confrontation. Beckett had sent us straight home from the scene, something about 45 working hours being enough for three days on a case. We are still wearing our police vests when we made it back to his apartment, the memories of the final push so recent that the adrenaline is still fading in our veins._

_“Whoa, man, that was…” I say as we’re through the door, my words escaping me,_

_“I know,” I don’t need to complete my thought to get agreement._

_“Intense,” I finally find the word, “Really intense!” I’ve not moved very far into the room, still wound tight, I remember my vest and start to unfasten it._

_“We make a great team bro,” He grins from behind the counter, his own vest gone he’s now twisting the tops from a couple of beers, pulled from the fridge._

_“I mean, when he started to run, I mean, right at me, but you were right there...” Animated I can’t help but relive it, snatches of moments,_

_“I know,"_

_“And I shouted, and he stopped and then…”_

_“I know,” He’s laughing now,_

_“And you took the shot, I mean, it was only a graze, but I was right there and for a second I thought… And wow, if you’d been a second later, I mean, it could’ve been me. With the graze. Or worse.” I’m not sure I’m making any sense; what I’m saying his intense, really intense, I feel nothing but elation: elation to be there, to be telling the story._

_“I know Kev, I was there,” He laughs, crossing the room toward me and I realise that he is intoxicated as I am on this feeling, “I’m always going to be,” He continues, grinning, holding out his hands to my face to get his words across, “I’m your partner, that means I’m with you till the wheels fall off.”_

_But suddenly I’ve stopped. Stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped thinking. His fingers against my cheeks are hot, burning, eyes on mine, so close I can see flecks of gold reflected from the overhead light. For too many seconds I am afraid to move, to break this moment, but when I do we are kissing, our mouths finding each other’s without knowing who was the first to cross that space. And every ounce of the intensity I had been trying to convey with speech I pour into that kiss: each forgotten word, each wild gesture, every drop of adrenaline that has not yet ebbed from my body. I want to show him what this means to me, what he means to me, but I am lost. I am lost in him. I want more and so does he, fingers scrabble at clothes and skin finds skin, spurring us further: a white hot blaze of emotion, of touch, of taste, of feel. I can’t get enough. I fall into him and he into me._

_And the beers sit untouched on the countertop._

_***_

“I found something when I was at the apartment,” I call into the darkness, memories of bright other times retreating like the fade out at the end of the movie.

 

“Hm?” He asks, voice heavy. I’m aware he might be sleeping but selfishly don’t want to be left alone.

 

“The third vics apartment, she had this thing about cats,”

 

“Was that what Beckett meant by creepy?” He remembers, voice quiet.

 

“Perhaps” I say, smiling at his voicing of my own thought,

 

“So you found cats?”

 

“I found a missing cat; I’d seen it before, in the super’s apartment.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“Huh?” I ask,

 

“You worked out that the super did it,” A sleepy laugh, “We already knew that bro,”

 

“Yeah, I know, I know we know.”

 

“…Bro.” He finishes. “Sounds like a song,”

 

“You’re not taking me seriously again,”

 

“I’m tired,”

 

“You wouldn’t let me sleep earlier,”

 

“I was worried about you,”

 

“I’m worried about you. You’ve probably lost a lot of blood,”

 

“Isn’t rest good for that?”

 

I don’t know what to say, I go with the truth: “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t wake you up again.”

 

“Ok.” Something in my voice gets through to him, “Do you think they’re coming for us?” He asks and for the first time since I heard his voice I am scared. I’m scared he’ll give up hope.

 

“Of course they are,”

 

“What do you think is taking them so long?”

 

“I don’t know, perhaps they don’t know where we are.”

 

“Where are we?”

 

“I don’t know.” Again I get the impression we’re circling, orbiting more slowly now.

 

“What did you find?” He asks, circling back to my original point.

 

“The cat was missing,”

 

“You already said that.”

 

“There was something behind it.”

 

“It wasn’t there,” He corrects

 

“Where it should have been,”

 

“What was it?”

 

“The cat?”

 

“The thing that was there where it wasn’t.”

 

“Eloquently put.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I wasn’t sure what it was at the time,” I continue, “It reflected back my camera flash,”

 

“Glass?”

 

“But small, I couldn’t see it hidden in the dark corner,”

 

“A camera?”

 

“Yeah, I saw it with my camera,”

 

“No I mean was it a camera?”

 

I stop.

 

“Of course,” I’m thinking out loud, “They were watching me. That’s how they knew I was there,”

 

“So how long had it been there?”

 

“Perhaps they were watching the victims?” I ask, just testing out a theory,

 

“Before they went missing?”

 

“They’d have no reason to have cameras if there was no one in the apartment,” I continue,

 

“So that means they were chosen, they weren’t random?”

 

“Maybe,”

 

“But why were they chosen?” Esposito asks,

 

We pause for a moment,

 

“What do we know about them? What do they have in common?” I finally ask.

 

“They all lived in the same apartment block,”

 

“I don’t think that’s important,” I suggest, “It was the building super, that just means he had access.”

 

“All between the ages of 25 and 35, professionals,”

 

“Anything else?” I’m searching my own memory

 

“Two were having an affair,”

 

“With each other, the third wasn’t…?”

 

“Perhaps I should have stuck around and found out about this fourth guy,”

 

“You will next time.” I smile, and then a thought occurs to me: “He wasn’t…” I start, but stop, start again: “Was Staines seeing anyone?”

 

“If she was we didn’t know about it.” A pause, he finds my page: “You think?”

 

“Perhaps”

 

“The fourth guy?” He clarifies.

 

“Two girls, two guys –there’s a symmetry to it,”

 

“We have no way of knowing,”

 

“No, you’re right,”

 

We stop, allowing the silence to creep back around us like a blanket.

 

“You should get some sleep,” I say finally.

 

“You wouldn’t let me,”

 

“I was just being selfish.”

 

“Hmm”, His voice soft, suddenly sleep-filled and warm. The darkness is so absolute I can almost convince myself that there is no wall between us, that we are not just disembodied voices through a grate.

 

“I wish I could see you,” I say, testing,

 

“It’s so dark in here I don’t think I could see you if were sitting beside me.”

 

“I am sitting beside you.”

 

He sighs “You’re right bro, you are,”

 

“Sleep.” I say, and I think he must.

 

 

I awake at once. Cold, hard stone beneath my cheek, the gray of dawn creeping around the edges of the high window. For a moment I do not know where I am. The room is bare, cold. My hands are bound.

 

My throat is sore with thirst.

 

Then a noise: a distant bang. I realize this is what has pulled me from my rough sleep. The noise again.

 

“Javi?” I ask suddenly, remembering. I drag myself from the floor to the wall, the cavity of the grating. The bang again.

 

“Javi, wake up.”

 

I think I hear a quiet moan, but it’s too distant, too separated.

 

“Javi, did you hear that?”

 

No response.

 

“Javi?”

 

Panic rises.

 

“Javi, wake up.” I order, pleading.

 

“Javi,” I slap at the wall, then realize the sound the chain wound around my wrists makes, use that instead.

 

“Javi!” A shout now, the noises outside have stopped, or I no longer hear them. “Javi!”

 

In desperation my eyes dart from the grating to the door and back again. I listen for him. Hear nothing. Stumble onto shaking legs to the doorway, hands scrabbling at the smooth surface of the door. My mind thinks only of getting to him.

 

“Javi!” I call again.

 

Another bang, this time it sounds like it’s coming from above. Close. But I’m not longer listening for this, I’m listening for a sound from the room next door, anything, the slightest breath of his voice.

 

“Javi, wake up” I cry his name like a mantra, fingers working their way between door and wall, finding nothing, snagging on stone, grazing, cutting. I pull away suddenly, hopelessly.

 

“Javi,” I go back to the grating, press my face up close: “Answer me Javi”

 

This time a moan. I freeze, listening, face up close to the tiny gap that affords me a window to his absent voice.

 

“Javi?” I call again, quieter. Silence again, fear coiling tighter in the pit of my stomach.

 

“Kev,” And finally an answer, low, quiet.

 

I can’t hold back the elated laughter.

 

“Javi, I’m here.”

 

“Kev,” He says again, and then a groan, “Just five more minutes, Kev”

 

And I’m laughing, that tight knot of fear unwinding, stretching out.

 

“I heard a noise Javi,”

 

“So did I,” A pause “It was you yelling.”

 

“Well don’t scare me like that.”

 

“I’m still here,”

 

“Are you ok?” I ask, ridiculously,

 

“Just peachy,” Another groan.

 

Then a noise, this time from above, a scraping, rattling sound.

 

A silence, I realize he’s probably hearing this for the first time: “That better be them,”

 

“It can’t be anyone else,” I say firmly,

 

“Someone put us in here,”

 

“He’ll be in custody,”

 

“Took him long enough to tell anyone where we were,”

 

“First thing I’ll do is tell Beckett she needs to work on her interrogation.”

 

“Good idea,” He groans, “First thing I’m going to do?”

 

“What?”

 

“The biggest glass of water you’ve ever seen bro,”

 

“You’re going to hospital.”

 

“Ok,” A pause “As long as they have water,”

 

“I’m pretty sure they’ll have water,”

 

“And maybe a cheeseburger,”

 

“That might be harder to find.”

 

A pause, the noises above have stopped again.

 

“Kev?” He asks, quiet

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Everything we talked about before,”

 

“You mean everything we didn’t talk about?”

 

“Everything we don’t talk about,” He clarifies.

 

“That’s ok bro, I understand.”

 

“Understand what?”

 

“That it…” I falter, “That…”

 

“It wasn’t the captivity talking.”

 

“Captivity doesn’t talk.” I reply tentatively,

 

“I meant every word.”

 

And with this a bang, close by, a scraping sound of metal against stone, then something that is unmistakably a shout, a human shout, even closer. And then a thump and a rattle and the door set back against the far wall of the room moves away from me.

 

Castle stands in the doorway.

 

There is a moment when I can see myself through his eyes: crouched low on the floor of a stone cell, beside the lifeline of a grating that he probably doesn’t even notice. Cold, dirty, desperate, hands chained, clothes disheveled.

 

“Javi,” I say to him, without acknowledging that it is Castle. That this person, at once so distant, so far away from this place, is standing in this cell. “Get Javi, he’s hurt.”

 

“Beckett’s got him.” The person says, moving into the room toward me, crouching. I’ve never seen Castle like this before: quiet, unassuming and I realize that I need this Castle, that I trust him, am willing to surrender myself to his authority. I rest my head back against the wall as he unlocks the chains that bind my wrists, unwinding them tentatively and I wince where they have dug into the skin.

 

“Can you stand?” He asks and I nod, but he still drops my arm across his shoulders, using his body to help hoist me from the floor. Suddenly exhausted, I’m happy for the support. Outside of the room is a blur of activity, paramedics greet us, take me from the supporting prop of Castle, fire questions at me, check responses, hands examine mine, a light shines across my eyes.

 

“I’m fine,” I say as they come toward me, and continue to repeat it as they carry out their investigations, “Just help Javi,” I find myself saying, over and over. “I’m fine.”

 

I’m being steered away, away from this room, away from the room next door. I crane my neck to look back.

 

“I’m fine.” My voice has risen in pitch, “Let me see him,” I pull away, surprised at what is left of my strength, “Honestly, I’m fine.”

 

And it’s Castle that holds them back as I walk away, rounding the corner into a room exactly the image of the one I have just left, except for the grating, set into an opposite wall. My partner is already on a stretcher, surrounded by people, his honey skin pale beneath a fluorescent blanket, oxygen strapped across his face. Leads, hands, voices surround him; a jumble of medical instructions. I manage to fight my way to his side, aware of Beckett suddenly behind me, but they’re raising him now, the paramedics, preparing to take him out to the waiting ambulance. I find his hand in the chaos and cover it with my own, marveling at the feel of him, the touch, the life of him. I lean in,

 

“Until the wheels fall off bro,” I whisper, hard, and his eyes where they have been closed crack open, find my face, fix there.

 

And then Beckett is pulling me back, and the paramedics are carrying him out. And I can only watch them go, and feel the hands that catch me as I crumple to the floor.

 

 


	2. Freedom

This time when I wake I emerge into the bright sunshine. My limbs are stiff, face pressed against hard cotton. As I stir I realize the ache in my neck,

 

“You’re awake.” And Javi’s voice, close to me. I am seated, I remember, by his bedside. I must have fallen asleep against the bed. I pull back slightly, finding his hand falls from the back of my neck.

 

“You’re awake.” I counter, marveling at being able to see his face as I speak, the pure presence of him, smiling back at me.

 

“It’s good to see your face bro,” He repeats my mind back to me.

 

“You’ve looked better,” I smile.

 

“What you doing here?”

 

“I didn’t want to leave you,”

 

“I’m surprised they didn’t send you home, told you to get some sleep.”

 

“They did, I ignored them,” I’m still leaning forward to him, “I slept enough,”

 

His hand resting on the bedclothes beside me lifts up and finds my face, I catch my breath,

 

“I can’t stop thinking about that first 24 hours, when I was out,” My voice is quiet when I talk, “What it must have been like.”

 

“I can’t pretend it was fun,” His face is serene, smiling that slow, slight smile I know so well,

 

“When I thought I’d lost you I went out of my mind,” I say, eyes locked on his, his hand at my face making me bold.

 

“I can see,” His hand moves to mine, where they are still resting on the bedclothes, they are raw and grazed, bandaged at the wrists and punctuated by band aids.

 

“You could say the bottom fell out of my world.”

 

“You could?”

 

“Yeah, I heard that somewhere.”

 

There’s a long moment where we just look at each other. I think I’ll never take looking at him for granted ever again.

 

Then a knock on the door behind me, I pull away, sitting back in the chair.

 

“Yeah?” Javi calls, and I turn as Beckett pushes open the door, smiling. Castle, as usual, behind her.

 

“You’re awake.” She repeats by way of introduction, and for a moment I wonder which of us she is referring to.

 

“How are you feeling?” Castle asks from over her shoulder,

 

“Drugged.” Esposito responds,

 

“Ok for some.” Castle grins and the tension lifts,

 

“So are you going to tell us what was going on?” Esposito continues,

 

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” Beckett asks, but we all know the question is only polite. With his nod she looks to Castle, as if hoping for inspiration, then perches herself against the window ledge.

 

“So the fourth guy’s name was Connor, Jonathan Connor.” She starts, “It took us a while to piece together his story, but it turns out that he and Staines were in a relationship of sorts.”

 

“Of sorts?” I ask, catching Esposito’s eye,

 

“Well from what we could work out it was pretty casual,”

 

“There weren’t any wedding bells.” Castle cuts in.

 

“Apparently Staines and the building super: Matthew Johnson had got friendly; she’d told him all about their relationship and its problems and how much they’d needed to work it out.”

 

“But it turns out that Johnson and his girlfriend had a bit of a fetish for the dramatic,” Castle takes over her narrative, “So instead of just putting them both in a room and asking them to sort it out, they took it one or two steps too far,”

 

I’m aware that I’m gaping at them. “You’re not serious?”

 

“Unfortunately he is.” Beckett picks it up again: “His role as the building super meant they’d uncovered that room in the basement of the building some time ago, some relic from when the site was a church.”

 

“We think they made some home improvements.” Castle cuts in again “You know, a few scatter cushions, bars on the windows, huge heavy doors.”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Esposito’s voice is low,

 

“So as far as we can tell they were performing some kind of human experiment,” Beckett speaks again.

 

“Cuthert and Goldberg were first,” I supply the details we have worked out for ourselves, “He was having an affair with her.”

 

“Yeah, Johnson realized that and used them as a warm up act.”

 

“With Staines and Connor as the main attraction?” I ask, suppressing a shudder,

 

“So what were we?” Esposito asks

 

“In the wrong place at the wrong time.” Castle supplies.

 

“But,” I pause, “How did people wind up dead?”

 

Beckett and Castle share a look.

 

“That’s the awful part,” Beckett again, “Turns out just locking people in a room and asking them to work out their issues wasn’t enough for them,”

 

“They had to watch,” Castle finishes.

 

“Cameras.” Esposito realizes aloud.

 

“Yes, in the cells and in their apartments.” Beckett continues, “Ryan worked that out,”

 

“I did?” I ask,

 

“We found your camera, in Staines’s apartment. Your photo of the video camera in the top corner of her room.”

 

“The camera probably got a better look than I did.” I realize.

 

“And…” Beckett again, “While they watched it, they wanted to resolve it.” A long pause, I sense this is the real issue of the story. “After days in that place, when the captives must have been out of their minds with no food or water, they gave them a choice.”

 

She stops, looking to Castle. There’s a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach,

 

His voice is grave when he speaks: “They had to decide who would live, and who would die.” He pauses, “Johnson’s girlfriend was a vet, she had access to drugs. They dropped in a vial through one of the windows, just one, with instructions. One of them would live, and one would just, go to sleep.”

 

“But I thought they did it to  _help_  Staines,” I ask, incredulous.

 

“That might have been how it started,” Beckett again “Or that might have just been a cover.”

 

“They just enjoyed playing God.” Castle this time, turning to Beckett: “The captives never really had a choice, once Johnson had dropped that vial through whichever window they chose, that was the person who had to die.”

 

“There was an opening,” Esposito cuts in; I don’t trust my voice, “In the wall, a grating. It’s how you could talk to the person in the other room. It would have been big enough to pass the vial.”

 

“But you couldn’t, wouldn’t, surely.” Castle says.

 

We’re silent.

 

“No wonder Connor wasn’t making much sense when you found him,” Esposito says, I get the impression he’s feeling along with him, “To be the survivor. He must be wreck”

 

“We can’t imagine what he’s been through.” Beckett.

 

“To decide like that… How do you begin?” Castle.

 

“Does that mean Cuthbert is still alive?” I ask.

 

“Probably,” Beckett says, “Though if she is I don’t imagine we’ll hear from her again. That kinda thing would be enough to make me run from the world.”

 

For a moment we’re all lost in our own thoughts again. My head reels. Could I have made that decision? Could I have lived if Javi had volunteered to die?

 

My voice is hoarse when I speak again: “Did they intend to do that to us?”

 

Beckett and Castle exchange a look: “We don’t think so.” Beckett assures, “They saw you in the building, panicked and put you in the only place they had. We had them in custody before they could do anything else,”

 

“Took us a long time to get them to talk,” Castle supplies

 

“We knew what was happening, but not where you were. They had to tell us,” Beckett again

 

“It was pretty well hidden.” Castle again, defensive.

 

Esposito makes a noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh: “Well you sure did take your time.”

 

“Sorry about that.” Castle says quickly.

 

I watch as Esposito rolls his head back onto the pillow. I think I know how he feels.

 

Unbidden my mind returns back to those cells: the voice in the other room, its closeness, its separation, was that what it was like for the others? Nothing to do but talk. To debate about what was happening to them, why it was happening to them, what it meant. Then about what was happening  _with_  them, why  _they_  were, what  _they_  meant. But then the part I didn’t know: just when they understood, when they realized what they were to one another, that decision. The knowledge, the sacrifice, the emotional trauma of putting it into practice.

 

“We should let you rest,” Beckett says to Esposito. I’m almost surprised they are still in the room.

 

They get up to go. I don’t move.

 

“Ryan?” Beckett asks, once Castle is out the door, “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

 

I nod and, still dazed, follow her out, brushing my hand over the top of the bedclothes as I leave. I look for Javi’s face, but find it’s turned away from me.

 

Standing outside the door, Beckett hands me an envelope.

 

“You should have this,” She says, “Wipe it, destroy it, do whatever you need to do, it doesn’t exist.”

 

I open the envelope, inside is a tape.

 

“They were still recording.” She says, I look at her, panic must be obvious in my eyes, “No one has seen it, it’s private, whatever happened in there is between you and Esposito.” She pauses, “I didn’t want to just destroy it without you knowing it exists,”

 

“Yeah,” I find my voice. “No, thanks,” A pause, “Thanks for giving me this.”

 

She nods.

 

“And thanks,” I continue, “For getting us out.”

 

“Next time, we’ll be there quicker.” She says, a smile.

 

I raise my eyebrows, but I’m aware she’s joking. She drops a hand on my shoulder then, the supportive weight of human contact still not lost on me, before she turns to leave. I watch her walk down the hall.

 

Taking a deep breath I push through the door and back into his room.

 

His face is still turned away from the door when I enter; I’m sitting again before he speaks without turning.

 

“I couldn’t have done it,”

 

“Done what?” I ask, partly knowing.

 

“I couldn’t have let you die to save me,”

 

I don’t know how to reply. He turns back toward me.

 

“Because you would have,” He continues “I know you would, if that vial had gone through your window you wouldn’t have given me a choice.”

 

“I’m glad you know that bro.” I hold his eyes, “You’d’ve done the same for me,”

 

“You know I would,”

 

“You did, you went back for me,”

 

I look at him for a long time, before moving forward, tentatively, resting my elbows back on the bed beside him. I find I’m testing the space between us like you would with a startled animal.

 

“Do you think they knew?” I ask, voicing the questions in my mind.

 

“Beckett and Castle?” He asks, not following.

 

“No, Johnson.”

 

“Knew what?”

 

Tentatively I reach out to touch his face, “Knew we were just like the others,”

 

“Are you saying we have issues?” His tone is light.

 

“Are you denying it?”

 

“I would if we talked about it.”

 

“Exactly.” I smile,

 

He pauses.

 

“Beckett and Castle were wrong,” His tone is grave, I find myself dropping my hand at the sight of the seriousness on his face, “We can’t have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. We’re taught not to believe in coincidences.” The weight of those words sit heavy on my chest.

 

“How do you think…?” I ask,

 

“Cameras” He states,

 

***

 

_The super’s apartment, red coat in hand._

_I watch him walk away._

 

_The apartment clears of officers as I replace the garment where I found it. This is no longer a crime scene; we’ve been called back to the station. But I’m in no hurry; I stand alone in the apartment for a long time._

_“Ryan.” His voice startles me; I am reminded of that morning, of stale beer and tepid water, of a sun-soaked barrier of carpet and his voice, calling me by a different name._

_“Yeah?” I ask, but I don’t turn,_

_“His alibi’s pretty air-tight,”_

_“Yeah,”_

_“We should get going,”_

_“Right behind you.” I reply, but I don’t move._

_There’s silence for a moment, but I know he hasn’t left either._

_“Kev, I…” And I feel his hand in mine, where it hangs by my side. His touch is tentative, gentle, brief, his intention only to turn me. As I do so I realize that this is the first time we’ve been alone since I ran from him. Since I said those words and felt the walls of these undefined feelings crumble around my ears._

_“I need…” He says, and stops, I can tell he’s struggling. I remain silent._

_I watch as he closes his eyes and then opens them again, mouth moving, no words coming out._

_“I…” He starts again and then a sigh “This can’t…”_

_“I know.” I say, when I realize he’s out of words._

_Turning my eyes from him I walk away, back toward the door._

_This time I don’t make it, he reaches me before I get there, hands all at once grasping and turning, pressing me hard against the plasterboard wall beside the apartment door. His lips on mine. Rough, firm and gone almost before I realize they were there._

_“Give me time bro,” His voice a hard whisper against my face._

_And he is gone._

_***_

“They had cameras in their own apartment?” I ask, coming back to the sight of his face in the sunlight of the hospital room.

 

“Goes with the playing God: they see all,” He replies,

 

“We should probably track down that tape too,”

 

“What?”

 

I offer a wan smile as I hold up the envelope Beckett has handed me.

 

“Cameras in the cells,” I say by way of explanation, “Beckett made the tape disappear for us,”

 

“Nice of her to disappear it in our direction.”

 

A pause.

 

“So you think they intended to do the same to us as they did with the others?”

 

He nods “When they saw you come back to the building…”

 

“…they took their chance,” I finish,

 

“Yeah,”

 

“But how did they know you’d come for me?” I ask.

 

“Your cell phone.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“When I found out what was going on? And I called your cell, over and over?”

 

“And I didn’t pick up?”

 

“They did.”

 

I gape at him. He continues:

 

“They got straight to the point,”

 

“What did they say?”

 

“‘We have your partner,’”

 

“Nothing else?”

 

“I have no idea, I hung up on them, I was already at the building.”

 

There’s a long silence. I look at him.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” My words,

 

“You don’t need to say anything,”

 

“But you must’ve known how dangerous it was going there,”

 

“We’ve been over this,” He responds.

 

“But…” I start.

 

His hand on my face stops me. “Let’s talk about something else,” He smiles.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like what we don’t talk about,”

 

I pause, struggling not to match his smile:

 

“I don’t know what to say.”

 

For a long moment we simply look at each other.

 

“Perhaps we pretty much covered all of it,” He says after a long time.

 

“Yeah,”

 

“I’ve never been very good at talking about my feelings,”

 

“Me either.”

 

 

 

 

***

 

**Epilogue**

 

 

A crash, a thump. Laughter. Bodies entwined, arms, lips, hands interlaced. Fingers fumbling for buttons. First on shirts. Then on the wall.

 

“Where’s the damn light switch?” His voice, words escaping through kisses.

 

“Ignore the light switch,” My reply at his lips.

 

“But it’s dark,”

 

“What’s wrong with the dark?”

 

“We’ll fall over things,”

 

“I’ll catch you,” I laugh against his mouth,

 

“You’re not strong enough,”

 

“Am too.” We stumble into the room, locked together, hands concerned only with divesting the other of clothes.

 

“What if we break something?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” A pause, our mouths otherwise occupied. “I’ll give you a bill in the morning.”

 

He laughs his breath warm against my face, “The morning? Does that mean I can stay all night?”

 

“Depends, do you snore?”

 

“No idea, you tell me.”

 

“Not that I can remember,” Pushing his shirt from his back I start on his belt buckle.

 

“You mean you didn’t hear me snore as you slunk out my bedroom at 4am?”

 

“I don’t slink,” I correct, breaking contact for a second to fake a wounded look.

 

“Creeped then,” He captures my lips again. Hands flit over exposed skin.

 

“It was probably closer to 5,” I say when I reach air again,

 

“Lazybones,”

 

“I was worn out,”

 

“Perhaps I was the same: too tired to snore.”

 

“I’d tired you out?” 

 

“Yeah, I guess you did,” He captures my mouth again with more venom. “Did anyone ever tell you you talk too much?” He asks

 

“Frequently,” My response,

 

Suddenly my legs knock up against something and, realizing it’s the couch, I try to pull him down with me.

 

“What are you doing?” He asks,

 

“Getting comfortable,”

 

“Kev,” He pulls away properly for the first time in our exchange and for a moment my stomach lurches at his tone: suddenly serious.

 

“Javi?”

 

“Kev, I love you but you should know something,” His eyes flash in the darkness.

 

“What?” I ask,

 

“I am never going to get naked on that couch,”

 

And I’m laughing and allowing him to pull me up against him again, hands grasping, stroking, touching. Lips meeting. No longer walled, no longer lost.

 

Partners.

 

Until the wheels fall off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all.
> 
> Obviously I’m a fanfic writer so I live for feedback, post a review or send me a mail – I’d love to hear what you think.
> 
> If you do like what you read I generally keep things updated and post ideas, thoughts, snippets and things that inspire me on my tumbr blog. You can find me under “Qalets”. I’m a shameful novice at the whole thing – so I’d welcome any hints and tips, ideas, thoughts and everything else you want to send me.


End file.
